Wish Upon A Star Page 8

  I scrub my spiky hair. “My thoughts on that are actually pretty complicated.” I stand up, go to my desk, and fiddle with a mechanical pencil, because I don’t think I can look at Mom while I say this stuff. “I thought about talking to Bethany about this, but…she’s a virgin too, so I don’t really have anyone I can talk to that can give me sound advice.” I look at Mom, my expression tangled up between hard and earnest and pleading. “I need you to try to be not just my mother, for a second.”

  She picks at a loose thread on the quilt of my bed. “I’ll do my best, honey.”

  “I don’t want to die a virgin,” I whisper.

  “Jolene—”

  “Just listen, for a second, please.” I click the pencil until the lead is almost an inch long, then push it back in. “It’s not why I’m doing this. It’s really, really not. There really is a connection between us, an emotional one that I can’t explain. But then, it also is a part of why I’m doing it. Because…if not for this thing with Wes, I will die a virgin. I’ll die never knowing what it’s like to be…wanted.” I hold up my hands to forestall any protests from her. “I know, I know—you and Dad love me with everything you’ve got. I know. But it’s not the same and you know it. I want something more than you and Dad can give me, and that doesn’t reflect on you, it’s just reality.”

  I swallow hard, let out a shaky, nervous breath.

  “Mom, I…I want…that. With him. Yeah, there is an element of it that has to do with the fact of my years-long crush on him, I’m not going to try and deny that. But now suddenly he’s real and he’s in my life, and…I’m scared. I don’t want him to feel…obligated. And I also don’t want to feel pressured. And…god, it’s so complicated, Mom. And I just…I don’t know how to navigate it. And the fact that I’m sick does enter the equation. It has to. I don’t have much time left, and that just hangs over everything. It colors everything I do, everything I think, everything I want, and I’m worried he’s just going along with this out of pity for the poor sad cancer girl from TikTok, but he’s too nice to say anything.” I close my eyes, keep going. “And then…there’s a very real part of me that doesn’t care if that’s why he’s doing this. Like, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity because it’s him. But for me, it stops being about who he is and it starts being about the time I have left and what I want to do with it. And part of me is just like, this guy clearly likes you, so just run with it. It’s the only chance I’m going to get to…to get carried away with a guy. To do any of the stuff that other girls my age are doing, that’s just part of life and growing up and everything I feel like I’ve missed out on. But just the fact that I’m going to die soon means I have to think things through differently.”

  Mom comes up behind me, takes the pencil from my fingers and sets it on my desk. Turns me to face her and holds my cheeks. “Jo, my love. Listen. It’s my job as your parent to protect you. To keep you safe. To give you the best life I can.” Her voice cracks. “You being sick has…it’s made me sometimes feel like I can’t do that. So the chances I get, I maybe sometimes go a little overboard. I know that. And your dad and I having to face the reality that—that you…” she trails off, closing her eyes, inhaling deeply and holding it. Lets it out, slowly. “That God is going to take you home soon. It’s the most impossible thing in the world. In a way, I don’t think we can come to grips with it.”

  I sniffle. “God, Mom. Come on.”

  “I’m sorry, but I have to say this. I want you to have happiness. God knows you’ve had little enough in your life, and I hate that more than I can say. And yeah, this whole situation with Westley is sudden and confusing and strange and it worries us. It’s so much, so suddenly. And part of me wants to just let you go off and do this like I would if you were a normal nineteen-year-old girl. And then there’s the reality that despite your illness, you are a normal nineteen-year-old girl. With normal needs and desires and instincts and all that. So in that sense, I understand that even if I wanted to stop you, I couldn’t. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. You’re not a child. But the desire to protect you is still there, as strong as ever.” She moves her hands to the outside of my shoulders. “I want you to be sure this is what you want. Marriage is not a joke. It’s not a game. It’s real, and it’s important. And you’re not just risking your heart and your future in this, but his, too.”

  “I know,” I whisper. “I think in a way, I’m more worried about him than me.”

  “Sounds about right for you,” she says, with a quiet laugh. “But as far as…um, sex. It’s a part of romantic relationships, certainly, and obviously a part of marriage. Usually relationships are developed over, um, a bit more time than you and Wes have had, and likely will have.” She closes her eyes as she says this, endeavoring and failing to keep her voice even as she says it. Gamely, she continues. “But. I just want you to…to keep your wits about you. To trust your instincts. If something seems wrong, listen to yourself. And if it feels right, listen to that too. Don’t be pressured into it. It should be mutual. It should be beautiful. Take your time. Don’t rush into it, either.” She huffs, nervous, uncomfortable. “Don’t rush. Savor the time you spend with him. Remember the beautiful moments. Be you, and be vulnerable—if you feel safe and comfortable. And…expect him to be vulnerable too; and just some real talk here, honey—vulnerability can be difficult for men, so you may have to coax it out of him.”

  In a way, this is the most ridiculously uncomfortable conversation I’ve ever had in my life. But also…the realest, the most needed.

  She pulls me into a hug. “Jolene, my darling. If we have done anything like raise you right, then you’ll know what’s right and when. If we raised you right, then we have to trust you to make this decision for yourself. If you feel this is right and good and necessary, then…okay. Just…” She squeezes me tightly. “Just remember, if you need us, we’ll be on a plane faster than you can say boo.”

  “I know, Mom.” I squeeze her back. “I love you.” I pull back and touch my forehead to hers. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

  “I know.” She pulls back. “So, what’s the plan again?”

  “We’re going to road trip back to LA. He has some work obligations that he can’t avoid, but then he’s going to rearrange his schedule. Put things on hold, whatever he has to do to get some uninterrupted time alone with me.” My heart skips as I say this—uninterrupted time alone with Wes. Squeeeee! “We’re going to make arrangements for a wedding. Soon, small, and private. Just you guys, Auntie Mace and Beth, and…well, honestly I don’t even know who would be there for him. I mean, I know like from Wikipedia that his parents are both alive and together and that he has an older sister, but I don’t know if he’s close to them or if he has a best friend or…any of that stuff.”

  “That’s because you literally just met him, dear.” This, with some droll side-eye

  “Knowing the facts about someone is not the same as knowing them, Mom. I don’t know how to put it.” I hunt for words. “I guess it just feels like…it feels like my heart knows his.”

  Mom softens. “I know what you mean, honey.”

  It’s another half an hour before Mom declares packing complete. I insist on hauling my suitcase down myself. Which I only manage about halfway, and then I have to pause and rethink the decision. Because…am I strong emotionally and mentally? Heck yes. Am I tough, physically? Absolutely? Do I suffer from an abundance of raw physical power? Not so much.

  So I stand on the middle of the stairs, clutching a suitcase that suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

  Wes is at the bottom of the stairs, watching me. “Got it?”

  I huff, annoyed. At myself, at circumstances, not him. “No, I do not.”

  “You want some help?”

  I nod. “Yes, please.”

  He’s there in half a moment, taking it from me as if it weighs nothing. “I didn’t want to jump in and assume you needed help.”

  I hold on to his arm, perhaps more than I
strictly need to. “I really appreciate that, actually.”

  “My sister is paralyzed from the waist down. Car accident when I was twelve, and she was seventeen. So I kinda grew up around that mentality—that understanding, I think is the better way to put it. She resents being offered help when she doesn’t need it or want it. She’s strong, she’s independent. She lives alone and has for years. She’s an athlete, an artist, and an absolutely amazing person, and I’m constantly in awe of her. She also happens to be in a wheelchair. So with you, I guess I’m sort of assuming something similar—you may have limitations. But I’m not going to assume you want me to sweep in and do everything for you. Even if my desire to help and to be there for you conflicts with that.”

  I stop with him at the bottom of the stairs and look up at him. “Thank you.”

  He frowns. “For?”

  “Sharing that with me.”

  He sniffs a laugh. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Actually, that isn’t something I’d normally share with someone I just met. I’m pretty protective of her privacy.”

  “What’s her name?” I ask.

  “Dinah,” he answers.

  “Are you close with your family?” I still have my hand tucked around his bicep. “I was talking to Mom before I came down and realized that other than what’s, you know, publicly available knowledge about you, I don’t really…know you.”

  He nods. “I am, actually. With Dinah, at least.”

  “What about your parents?”

  A shrug. “They live back East. Vermont. I moved to LA when I was eighteen, the day I graduated high school. They didn’t agree with the decision. They thought I should stay home and go to college and ease into show business. All I wanted to do was be a musician, and here was my chance, right? It just fell into my lap like a freaking grenade and blew up my life. I was nobody, and then literally overnight I was famous. It was bonkers. But I was like, I’m doing it. They thought it was a mistake, it’d be this fleeting thing. They believed in me, it was just the system they didn’t believe in.” A laugh. “Turns out, they were right. When I quit the band and the label like I did, there was a minute where I was like, shit, maybe they were right. But I loved LA and I loved performing, so I decided to stick around a while longer and try to make another go of it. And that just so happened to coincide with my agent getting a call from a director looking for a guy with a certain look for a part—and I just so happened to fit that look. And bam, just like that, I was an actor.” Another laugh. “They really didn’t like that.”

  “Do they support you now?” I ask.

  He nods. “Yeah, but it’s still a bit strained. They were always telling me I should just come home, let things cool off a bit.” A sigh. “It made me feel like maybe they didn’t support me or believe in me as much as I wanted them to. I dunno. It’s complicated.” A pause. “Then Dinah moved out to LA and that sort of chafed them a bit, too.”

  I grinned at him. “And what do they think about this whole thing with you and me?”

  A blinking, blank look. “Well…?”

  I laughed and patted him on the chest. “I’m teasing.”

  He sighs. “It will be a heck of a shock for them when I call them and tell them, ‘hey, Mom and Dad, so, um, I’m getting married next week, so you need to come out to LA.’”

  “What does Dinah do?”

  “She’s a personal trainer and a graphic artist. I want to call it painting, but it’s more than that. Multimedia art, she calls it. One piece will have oil paint, watercolors, pieces from newspapers or magazines, feathers, beads, whatever. She has her own gallery and studio.”

  “Wow. I feel like I need to meet her.”

  “Oh, you will.” He smiles. “I actually haven’t seen her in a few days myself. She tends to sort of…go through these intense phases. She takes, like two and a half weeks off of work at the gym and locks herself in the studio and has her meals delivered and just works all day and all night for days and days. She’ll produce like half a dozen huge pieces in two weeks, in this crazy frenzy of manic creativity. Then she puts them up for sale at the gallery and goes back to work. So, when your TikTok went up, she was in the middle of one of those phases where no one sees her for days at a time.”

  “So she doesn’t know either.”

  “No one does but Jen and Marty.”

  “Your assistant and your agent?”

  “Calling Jen merely my assistant isn’t quite accurate. She does assistant-type things, like scheduling and screening emails and phone calls and making reservations and such. But really, she’s as much a manager as anything. She does what anyone else would hire like four other people for. And Marty is my agent, yes.”

  This whole conversation has occurred at the bottom of my stairs, him a stair down from me.

  I’m looking at him straight on, and suddenly all I can think about is that kiss outside. How soft his lips were. How his mouth tasted. How his tongue felt.

  His eyes flick to my lips—does that mean he’s thinking the same thing?

  It feels like I’m falling forward—my hands go flat to his chest, which is strong and firm and broad, and my nose slants against his.

  And then my eyes are closed and his mouth is damp and hot and insistent against mine, and I’m kissing him and I’m up in the stars, and they’re wild and furious or maybe that’s my pulse—the blood in my very veins afire and scorching me from within.

  “HO-kay!” I hear, in my dad’s voice, surprised.

  I pull away, forcing myself to move slowly rather than abruptly as if guilty. “Hi, Dad.”

  “This is all very sudden,” Dad says. “Not sure how comfortable I am with this.”

  I don’t move my hands from Wes’s shoulders, and I realize his hands are around my waist, and now that I’m aware of them there my whole body tingles, but especially where his hands touch me.

  I want to burst into inappropriate and slightly hysterical laughter, but I hold it back.

  “It is all very sudden.” I smile at Dad. “And I understand that it makes you uncomfortable to see me kissing someone.”

  Wes takes my suitcase. “I’ll just go bring this outside.”

  “Thanks,” I murmur to him.

  When he’s outside, and I’m alone with Dad.

  “I’m still your little girl, Dad,” I say, sitting on the stair I’ve been standing on. “I’m just…not a little girl anymore.”

  “I know. You’ve never been away from us, ever. You’ve never had a boyfriend. And now, just like that, you’re—” He breaks off, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry, I’m just having trouble with it.”

  “Would it help if you looked at this as me ticking off the last few things on my bucket list?” I say, reaching out to touch his arm.

  He shakes his head. “No, not really. But I’ll adjust.”

  “So.” I move past him, into the living room, gathering my cell phone and charger cord and block and put them into my purse. “Any advice?”

  “Yeah,” he says immediately, “Don’t marry someone you just met.”

  “Funny, Dad, very funny.” I eye him. “Seriously.”

  He leans against the back of the couch, watching me go through the contents of my purse one more time, making sure I’ve got everything I need. “Expensive gifts don’t equate to love. Neither does…er, the physical stuff. Sex and all that.” His face reddens but he doesn’t slow down. “That can be an expression of emotions, but…love is an action—a consistent choice. It’s putting the other person first. Considering them before yourself. So…I don’t know if that’s where things are with you two, but I guess what I’m saying is don’t be fooled by pretty words and glittery things.” He pauses. “Nothing is expected of you, Jolene. Physically, I mean. In any sense, but especially that. Don’t do anything you’re not a hundred percent comfortable with. No matter what. Okay?”

  “I know, and I won’t.” I put everything back into my purse. Face Dad. “It’s a few days in LA with Wes. I’m not—” I stop myself abruptly,
because I was about to say I’m not leaving forever, which would have been in poor taste at best. I start over. “I’m not moving.”

  Probably not? I don’t know. All I know is I’m living in the moment.

  The moment is all any of us ever have, right? No one is guaranteed more than this very instant. But for me, the moment really is all I have.

  And like heck am I gonna miss out on this opportunity with Wes.

  “I just worry about you, babycakes,” he says.

  “I know. And I’m not going to tell you not to.” I hug him. “I love you. I’ll call you a lot. I’ll be fine.”

  Mom comes down, then. Her eyes are red, but dry. She hugs me. “I wish I could tell you I was okay with this, Jo-Jo. But I’m just not.” She clutches me to herself and clings hard. “You really feel like you have to go?”

  I nod against her shoulder. “Yes. I feel very strongly that this is something I need to do.” I hold her away and make sure both she and Dad are looking at me, listening. “I’m smart, okay? If I feel like something is off, I’ll come home. You have to just trust me, now, okay?”

  One more hug, this time from both of them at the same time.

  And then, I shoulder my purse, head for the front door. Wes is on the porch, giving me space to say goodbye to my parents.

  I open the storm door, and then pause and look back at my parents—I’ve never been away from them overnight. I’m a little scared, and a lot excited.

  I blow them a kiss. “Bye, I love you guys. See you soon.”

  “Call us right away if—” Dad halts. “If you need anything.”

  “I will,” I say.

  And then I’m outside and Wes is leaning against his big black SUV. He’s wearing tight black jeans with artful rips at the knees, slouched into the same calf-high, partially unlaced combat boots. A blindingly white T-shirt, just the front tucked behind a thick black belt. Black leather ball cap, no insignia or logo, with mirrored Ray-Bans.